


Ultraviolence

by WanderingBandurria



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Black Dorcas Meadowes, Canon-Typical Violence, Dorcas Meadowes defies Voldemort, Fire, First War with Voldemort, Hopeful Ending, Misgendering, Nonbinary Character, Original Character - Freeform, Other, Racism, and we are giving the spotlight to a fellow enby, fuck jk, past homophobia, we are not burying our gays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29510631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingBandurria/pseuds/WanderingBandurria
Summary: Dorcas goes to confront Voldemort after the attack at the McKinnons.
Relationships: Marlene McKinnon/Dorcas Meadowes
Comments: 9
Kudos: 6





	Ultraviolence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wholesome_gay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholesome_gay/gifts).



> Hello everyone. So, this fic was inspired in the song "Ultraviolence," recommended by moonynpadfootforever ([wholesome_gay ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholesome_gay/pseuds/wholesome_gay/works) here, go read their fics because they are amazing).  
> Please read the tags for the specific content warnings. This fic threads into some sensitive topics, but they are framed as problematic. Still, please take care of yourself if it might be triggering for you.  
> I'm beyond grateful here for LikeABellThroughTheNight, [BrujaBanter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrujaBanter/pseuds/BrujaBanter) and [Miraxb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraxb/pseuds/swottypotter) for beta and sensitivity reads. It means a lot having your different takes in how to portray these topics.  
> I hope you enjoy this, and if there's any tag that you think I should add, please let me know!

\---

The first thing they notice is the fire. It’s sort of obvious, with the whole two-storey house aflame. 

The second thing is the heat. 

No one talks about the heat and ashes during a fire. No one seems to stop to talk about how the heat comes like a wave and burns your lungs. 

_Fitting_ , they think, because there’s no more air left in their lungs, and their thoughts seem to vanish with the ashes, leaving just space for their heartbeat in their ears - _budum, budum, budum -_ and the foreign feeling of _home_ , that shouldn’t be, _shouldn’t be_ ; but the heat seems to force memories of a wooden kitchen and their mother softly humming songs.

Their eyes search frantically around: left, right, right, left - just muggles, muggles, muggles, which makes sense because _this is a muggle street_ , _a muggle house,_ and there’s a fucking skull with a snake coming out of its mouth in the sky, and a two-storey house burning to the ground in the middle of their block. They search around, but there is just black and grey ash and people gaping and pointing at the sky.

“Meadowes!” Black yells, coming running at them, eyes full of shock, face full of grime and ash.

Dorcas knows what that expression means. They’ve seen it before in the past two weeks. It’s bad news. It’s _we were too late_. It’s, it’s…

They are already searching frantically into their magic, as Black opens his mouth again, seemingly knowing what they are about to do.

“Dokky, wait!” and that has to be Evans, the only person who would call them that fucking nickname that she came up with in second year. She’s running too, grabbing Sirius’ hand as she passes by his side, urging him forward, sensing what Dorcas is about to do.

Their eyes meet, and Dorcas doesn’t have it in them to even smile, so they just let themself slide into the blackness.

They stumble around in the void, feeling their lungs constricting as they search frantically. They don’t know anyone else that can do _this_ , so they are not sure how to describe it. It’s like they can move the darkness like water, like they can milk it for answers, follow the thrum in the veins of a particular person, with their particular rhythm and colour. 

Voldemort’s thrum isn’t particularly hard for them to find. Not when it’s the only thing in their mind, pushing all thoughts aside, leaving just space for pain.

When they feel their feet making contact with the ground and the last spiderwebs of darkness fade from their eyes, they turn to the side and puke all that it’s left in their stomach. 

It’s not much. The past few days have been hard.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” Voldemort’s ice-cold voice greets them, as they wipe their mouth with the sleeve of their jacket. Their eyes meet, and Voldemort’s red slits make a chill run down their back, but it doesn’t matter. They are here for only one reason, so they just raise their wand and snarl at him, glancing around quickly, mapping the place.

They are in an old, posh library, and it’s only the two of them. The fire is out, so no risk of anyone coming in. There are candles and books spread all over the place. It’s a luxurious place, clearly old, big, fueled with bitter memories and evil magic, and it doesn’t take much to figure out that it’s the property of a pure blood family. Dorcas has to resist the shivers that the magic seeping through the walls tries to force down their back.

“I wasn’t expecting you so soon, child,” Voldemort says, playing with his wand, tapping his thin pale lip. He doesn’t fool Dorcas, though - he’s ready to kill them. “But I’m glad you are here, I’ve been meaning to have a little chat with you. That’s quite an impressive skill of yours, isn’t it? To be able to reach whoever you want when you make up your mind - it would be such a useful thing in the right hands, you know? You could be so powerful if you let me help you mould your talent. Oh, don’t look at me like that, sweetheart,” he says, and Dorcas’ breathing speeds up, getting ready to fight, as they clench their teeth. “I couldn’t let you just waste away, could I? Think of this as my little welcome gift for you - I had your _distractions_ _taken care of_ , so you could pay proper attention to your magical potential,” he muses, and a slow smile seems to appear on his face, but it’s hard to call that pull of the corners of his mouth a smile.

“Fuck you,” they call weakly as they raise their hand, but they don’t hex yet. The world is still spinning a bit after the forced apparition. It’s alright, Dorcas just has to play their cards correctly, because if they know something about Voldemort, it is that he likes to _talk._ Better for them, they think, since that’d give them time to recover their magic.

“Oh, kid, there’s no need for that,” he says and tuts at them. “I’m just giving you good news. I’m not fond of _third_ chances, you see? I would normally just - be done with you right away, after you’d dared to try to fight me two times already. But I’m willing to make an exception for you, my dear. With your little… talent, after all, you would be the perfect _hunt hound,”_ he says, and the cruel smile on his face makes it clear that he made the animal comparison to try to hurt them, to humiliate them.

Nothing hurts Dorcas now, though, but the implication manages to _anger_ them. It angers them to the core, so before they can think of anything else, they are throwing the first hex. They don’t even call it - they just let their magic channel into the wand, thinking desperately of hurt, pain, and hate.

What comes out is a purple and yellow lightning, and they realize it is the mixture of a pretentious spell that Black taught them (and that they suspect he invented), and a very pragmatic, reasonable one that Evans found in an old book.

It shouldn’t be mixed, and it mostly reflects their mental state, but it ends up being such erratic magic, moving in short bursts and jumping around like a living creature, that it manages to catch Voldemort off-balance, and so he deflects it just in time, with an angry yelp that makes the house rattle and Dorcas jump behind an armchair just in time as a red light passes by their side, almost catching their ear.

Voldemort is yelling and snarling and throwing hex after hex, and the only thing that Dorcas can do is jump behind furniture, run from one hiding point to another, feeling their breathing rushing up and the hardness of the floor under their knees. 

They can hear Voldemort’s steps as they wait with their back against a wooden desk, and they can hear his voice rumbling, pretending to be calm, mocking, offering heavens and power, _still_ _willing to give them a chance_. 

Their wand hand shakes, and out of habit, they pull their wristwatch to their lips, giving it a soft, cold kiss. Their eyes slide to the hand, pointing straight to the black square where the six-o’clock would be in a muggle watch. _Unknown place_ , it means. The golden hand with an _M_ engraved has been there for a couple of hours. It made their heart stop when they first noticed it moving from two o’clock _(parents’ house)_ to the black square, where it hadn’t stop ever before for more than a couple of minutes. 

Voldemort’s steps come closer.

“You should know better, girl,” he’s saying, but it doesn’t matter. Not the _girl_ , not the snarling tone.

It doesn’t matter, because the handle in their wristwatch is moving. It’s _moving_ , everywhere, anywhere, like a lost compass, and Dorcas’ heart is jumping with it.

It stops at the nine o’clock position. _Headquarters_.

Their mouth is dry and their heart out of control as they manage to crouch and, as they hear Voldemort’s robes flutter on the other side of the desk, they jump from behind it and make a run for the door.

Voldemort shouts behind them, at the same time that Dorcas turns over their shoulder and pointing to the ceiling, yells “Bombarda!” praying to all the fucking gods, to Merlin, to whoever might be around, to let them get away from this.

To let them go check if Marlene is alright.

The ceiling falls and Voldemort is yelling “stop her, bring her back _alive,_ ” as they run through heavy ornate corridors, illuminated by torches and miraculously empty.

They run, without knowing where they are going; without knowing where’s up, where’s down, where they can apparate away. They notice the wards now - the anti-apparition wards that their magic broke into when coming in -, and their heart beats in a bunny-rhythm as they see the shadows in a corner and hear the voices of Death Eaters, getting closer and closer from everywhere.

Before they can stop themself, Dorcas turns on their heels and, _for fucks sake please, please, please work,_ they open one of the windows. They take a big breath and, taking a short run to gather their courage, jump out of it.

It’s horrible. They are on the third floor of an old house, and the fall feels worse than any apparition, but it’s mid-air, as they hear the voices of the Death Eaters as they poke their heads out of the window, that they feel the wards vanishing. They force their brain to _not pass out_ and gather their magic for a last pull of apparition, picturing the old house that serves as a cover for the Order of the Phoenix’s headquarters.

They would puke again when they get back into time and space if there was anything left in their stomach. Instead, they just dry-heave as their eyes seem to just _hurt_ with flashes of light, and their fingers grab desperately at the cold metal of the well-known, ivy-covered fence. The paint, as usual, flakes between their fingers, leaving chunks of white paint on their palms.

The Death Eaters will probably follow soon, so as soon as their head stops spinning, they press it against the fence and mumble against it, “I’m here because I want to.”

The fence opens, and for the first time, they are grateful for the fucking _easy_ password that lets them access the majestic house which the cottage turns into as soon as someone enters with the magical words.

Dorcas is not sure where they are going - their brain has been on autopilot for so long now that exhaustion seems to grab every one of their muscles, but they keep walking, dazed, almost at a loss in a building where they’ve been innumerable times.

After a couple of minutes of frantic walking, Dorcas realizes they are heading to the infirmary. It’s where they would usually find Marlene, tending to the wounds of other members. It’s where Dorcas would head every time they got here, to kiss their girlfriend and lie down in a bed for a couple of minutes, before going to give their report to Dumbledore.

They stop right in their tracks when they get to the hallway where the door for the room they’ve equipped to tend to people’s wounds is. There, outside of the door, covered in ashes, is Marlene’s mother. She looks small, fragile, terribly out of place in the middle of the magical house. She doesn’t look like the woman that frowned upon Dorcas’ presence at her house, the woman that yelled at Marlene on the sidewalk about _hell_ and _unnatural_ things. She doesn’t look like the woman that came to their house months later and told Marlene, as she stirred the lukewarm tea that Marlene made for her, that she wanted her back, that she wanted her to start coming for dinner on the weekends (the _only you, not your partner_ implied, and then explicit as Marlene pushed, with her chin up, to ask about Dorcas coming too), even though she would never be able to approve of her _lifestyle_.

She turns her head and her eyes make contact with Dorcas’, blinking owlishly.

And then she’s standing up, running towards them, and throwing her arms around Dorcas’ shoulders, as she sobs - “she’s alright, she’s alright, she’s alright, don’t worry, she’s alive, Dorcas, she is.” 

Dorcas’ grip tightens on her shoulders, and a sob comes out of their lips as they sink their nose in her shoulder.

“She is?” they manage to ask, their voice small and rough.

“She is,” Marlene’s mom says, crying and shaking while nodding against Dorcas’ shoulder. “She will be. I don’t know what she did, but she grabbed us and took us away from there. She did something, something like a bubble, I don’t know, there was _so much fire_ , and her hands started to peel, but she kept us there, and took us out of there,” she is rambling, and Dorcas just nods, their heart constricting and their lungs working again. 

Marlene’s mom - _Edith_ is her name - pulls away to look into Dorcas’ brown, tired eyes. Her face is full of snot and tears, and Dorcas smiles at her, small and timid, because _she looks so much like Marlene after injuring her beater’s arm_. Edith tries to smile back, even though it’s just a grimace, and squeezes their arms and nods.

“Go ahead, she’s in there. She’s sleeping, but I’m sure she would want you by her side,” she says, and cleans her nose with her sleeve, trying again and managing now a watery smile. 

Dorcas nods and squeezes her hand, before sliding past her, and swiftly opening the door.

The room is dark, except for the soft light coming out of some potions - golden and green and red, and it’s like they are back in front of the burning house, like they are back in their mother’s kitchen, and it’s like fire and light and love mix together until Dorcas is not sure what’s what. Marlene is on a stretcher, ashes on her cheek, some of her strands of hair burnt down. Her lower lip is blistered, Dorcas notices as they sit on a chair by her side, their heart going out of control - _budum, budum, budum_ \- and their throat closing.

They push a strand of blonde hair out of Marlene’s face, and try to clean some of the ashes from her cheek, but their hands are shaking, so in the end, they grab hold of Marlene’s arm - pale, pale wrist, hand covered in clean bandages, without its usual pink gleam, but just white, like Voldemort’s skin, almost glowing against Dorcas’ brown hand -, like it can save them from drifting into the void.

“Hey, love,” they mumble softly, as they watch Marlene’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall. “I’m glad you are still here with us. I love you, you know?” they say slowly, feeling tired all of the sudden. As they feel sleep creeping from the back of their head, they smile, dopely, feeling relief turning into euphoria, and euphoria dimming into a soft, sweet silliness. “By the way, guess who’s talking to me again,” and the smile on their face stays put as they sag against the chair, watchful eyes finally closing, tired and relieved.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can let me know what you think of this in the comments, and if you have any constructive feedback or any qualm don't doubt to leave a comment or send me a DM on [Tumblr](https://wanderingbandurria.tumblr.com/). I did my best to try to bring a respectful portray of some sensitive topics, but I still have a lot to learn and if I made any mistake or anything that you might be damaging, please let me know so I can improve <3  
> Love to you all


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